


I Want To Believe

by DearPercocet (notreallygrump)



Category: Frank Iero and the Patience
Genre: Coming Back from Tour, Daddy Kink, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Making Out, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 15:13:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14215878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notreallygrump/pseuds/DearPercocet
Summary: Frank comes back from tour with a newfound shirt, and a newfound meaning for an old word in his dictionary. It's not your fault! You're just his... enabler. *an updated version*





	I Want To Believe

There’s a sense of calm on Sunday mornings like this.

You’re sat on the open window ledge of your apartment, smoking cigarettes as the sun rises and sipping your usual coffee. Your cardigan, wrapped tightly around your form, keeps you warm while a pre-summer chill sets into the Jersey air. There’s no sense of urgency to get ready by nine and open up shop downstairs today, so you sit with your head rested against the wall and watch the people below.

You think for a while, about clients with repairs you need to get on with - nothing too major - jobs that can be finished over the next week. Reflecting on the years that have gone by since you opened up your little local music shop. At first you served kids, most likely starting their first bands and picking up their first instruments - you didn’t mind it at all. Opening that shop meant you could stop working in that horrible job in a cubicle.

It made you enough money until you found yourself serving someone of moderate fame. It had been the winter after you opened when this older dark-haired guy walked in with his hard case in tow. You recognised him vaguely, but had no idea where exactly from until he started talking.

_”Hey, you’re open right?” He’d asked, and you nodded in response. Standing from your place and setting the sandwich you’d made down on the counter. “Great, I’m in a major rush. I’ve got a show tonight, the action on this baby’s fucked and I don’t have the time to fix her. Reckon you could help?”_

_“Sure! I’m on it. Where abouts is your show?” You ask out of interest, taking the hard case from him and setting it behind the counter._

_“Stone Pony? It’s a show with some friends, we always play the few days after Christmas, so tonight’s the last one.”_

_“Oh shit,” You suddenly remember exactly where you know him from. “You’re one of the guys from The Bouncing Souls, right?”_

_“That’s me,” The guy smiles and holds out a hand. “Pete.”_

_“Y/N.” You shake his hand politely and give him a sweet smile. “I know exactly where Stone Pony is, if you want me to just bring ‘er by when she’s fixed.”_

_“That… that would actually be great, yeah. The show starts at eight-thirty, I’ll put you on the guest list.”_

You’d shown up a couple of hours early to the show with Pete’s guitar in tow, and after thanking you profusely for the perfect reparations you’d made he insisted you stay for the show and let him introduce you to his friends afterwards. Considering how good it could be for business, you nodded, hanging around for the rest of the afternoon and meeting people you never thought you’d meet.

The show was great, you realised how many of their songs you actually knew and by the end of the night (and a few rounds of drinks) you’d met plenty of local bands and artists. Sliding them your details whenever the subject of music came up… which admittedly was often. Since then, you’d ended up the go-to girl for the whole local community when it came to anything involving repairs.

Losing yourself for a while, the ping of your phone going off brings you back into reality. You reach for it, noticing the screen lit up with one of your best and favourite customers’ names. Swiping the phone screen and answering the call, you move from the window sill and walk through your house to your bedroom.

“Hey Y/N.”

”Hey Frankie, are you back?”

“Sure am, got home yesterday. One last show to do.” He sounds tired, and part of you wants to tell him to sleep instead of ringing you, but you don’t.

“How was tour?”

“Crazy as always, how’ve you been without me?”

“You know how it is, drama here, drinking there. Although I had Lazzara drop by with his kit as they were finishing off their tour, apparently a little birdy told them to hit me up?” You hear a chuckle on the other end of the line. You’d had some of Frank’s friends - or rather, the guys from Taking Back Sunday - walk in a couple of weeks ago as they were touring along the east coast. It was the first real time you’d been a little starstruck since the first time you met Frank. 

“Oh man, I told him not to say that was me!”

“Well he did, and thank you, that was a great job I got…” You tail off, walking to your bedroom window and opening up the curtains. “Anyway, what can I do for you Frankie?”

“I was just wondering if you were open today? I could do with grabbing a couple things and getting some repairs. Nothing major - an action adjustment-” He means to go on, but you cut him off

“Isn’t that something you can do on your own?” It’s a simple task, but the man’s tired - you can understand why he’d want someone else to do it.

“I mean… yeah, but I wanna hang out. It’s been nearly two months!” He laughs again and you can’t help but smile, of course you’ll do the jobs for him. You always make sure to go the extra mile for Frank. You’d met him at that show so many years ago and immediately hit it off. Within months, he was showing up at the shop for strings and pedals, until eventually he’d waltz in just for a catch up every week. You ended up at his local shows, and then going to other shows with him… the only times you wouldn’t see each other were when he was on tour or you went on holiday.

“Alright, alright. I’ll open up shop, you better get your ass here quick though. I had plans.”

“To do what?”

“I dunno, sit and watch Sons of Anarchy.”

“Mmhm, well I promise I’ll be there soon. I’m leaving now.” You hear a door open in the background of the call, and trust he’ll be over in the next half hour.

“Alright, see you soon Frankie.”

 

It’s not long later and you’re downstairs in the shop with the shutters up and the door open for Frank to walk in. You throw on some music and settle on your stool behind the counter, resting your cheek against your hand and doodling on the notebook you keep down here. 

Around five minutes pass before you see his car pull up outside, the old classic Bronco that you’ve always threatened to steal should Frank ever disappear due to… _aliens or whatever_. He hops out, donning the old black parka jacket he wears so often, and opens up the back passenger doors to retrieve whatever he’s bringing in for you to fix. 

He enters the shop with two hard cases and a grin on his face. You stand up as he drops his belongings and rushes toward you. Embracing you as you reach him like he always does.

“Hey you,” He says, and you laugh lightly at his greeting. It gives you a weird sense of nostalgia. Frank had been gone for almost two months on his tour. The two of you hadn’t seen each other since the week before that, and while there were casual conversations over text - mostly funny shit he’d see on days off - while he was gone, you usually left him to it.

“Hey yourself, what’s goin’ on man?” You let go of him and lean back to get a good look at him. He looks… _God, he looks exhausted._ His hair’s dishevelled and grown out under the hood of his jacket, while those normally bright eyes are sullen and balance on black sunken bags. “Jesus Frankie, you look like you haven’t slept in fuckin’ months.”

“Ahh you know what I’m like… I don’t get too much room on my bunk when I cover the whole thing in bags of crap. I started with my duffle and ended up with two bags of vinyl and crap I bought at markets.”

“I’m starting to understand why the guys call you ‘Mouse’, now.”

“Shut up.” He laughs and you let go of him completely. “I’m fine, anyway. Come on, I wanna show you something. I got you something.”

“Me? Why?” You’re pleasantly surprised by the offer of a present, so you quickly close and lock the door into the shop, pick up both of the cases yourself, aware of how draining two months of load ins will have been, and carry them through to the backroom of your shop.

“You’re my girl, aren’t you? Gotta get you something. Besides… I saw it and thought of you.” He walks, trailing behind you and surveying your shitty old repair room. There’s not too much clutter compared to normal. An old stack stereo system you’d been meaning to clean up, a few guitars you were refurbishing and reselling, the two scruffy couches facing each other with the coffee table in the middle. Along with your old faithful kitchenette along the yellowing back wall.

 _”You’re my girl, aren’t you?”_ You think about those words as you set the cases down and head over to switch the kettle on. You loved the idea of being ‘Frank’s girl’, but you’d shut down any idea since the beginning of your friendship. At the time, you’d been in a stupidly intense relationship with your last boyfriend. It lasted a while before you got fed up with him stumbling into your house at four in the morning with whiskey on both breath and brain.

Nevertheless, as the two of you had spent more time together, there was no doubt you’d both gotten physically and emotionally closer to each other. A hand on the waist here, a deeply spiritual conversation there… but it was all part and parcel of the friendship, you thought.

At least until you’d ended up at his after a show one night a long while ago, on the verge of passing out from tiredness, head rested on his lap as you sat through reruns of Parks and Rec.

_”Hey, Frankie?”_

_“Yeah?”_

_“Are we like… ‘friends’ friends now?”_

_“‘Friends’ friends?” You heard him ask with a questioning tone, you propped yourself up to look at him seriously._

_“Yeah, like before we knew each other through Pete, then we started hanging out, and now we’ve been to like three shows together. So are we friends? Can I just start sending you stupid photos whenever I want?”_

_“Are you asking me to be your friend, Y/N?” He looked at you with tired eyes and a delicate smile._

_“Yeah, I am.”_

_“Then yes, I’ll be your friend.” He opens his arm out for you to lean against him, and you end up with your head on his shoulder. There’s a moment in the silence, where you feel him turn to kiss your hair, and you settle with your eyes closed._

_“Cool.”_

 

“Y/N?” You’d been too occupied by your thoughts to notice Frank looking at you concerned from one of the sofas. Shaking yourself, you give him a grin and grab two mugs from the counter.

“Sorry, what were you saying?”

“I was saying, I was in Detroit and I found this for you.” He pulls a plastic bag out of his backpack and holds it out to you. Gesturing for you to take it, you walk over and open up the bag to look inside.

“Holy shit Frank,” You pull out an old army green flannel shirt, it’s a thousand sizes too big - the way you like them - and you immediately want to strip off your cardigan and throw it on. “I love it man, thank you.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah! Where’d you find it? It’s so well kept for its age.” You look up to him, raising the old green fabric in your hands to your nose. “And it doesn’t smell like piss!”

“There was this awesome little market that sold a load of clothes and vinyl, trinkets and shit.” He sits back in the chair and watches as you turn away pull your sleeves out of your cardigan, leaving you in your vest and jeans before you wrap the flannel around yourself. All the while making your way to the mugs and kettle. It’s quiet as you make the two of you cups of tea, but when you turn you find Frank watching you with a little smile. “You look…” He trails off for a second, as though he’s about to say something completely different to what _does_ come out of his mouth. “...so punk.”

“Why thank you, mouse.” You hand him his tea in an old misfits mug you got for him when he first started showing up regularly. You figured if it was gonna be a common occurence, he deserved his own cup in the kitchen.

“Did you notice the patch?”

“What? No!” You look at the shirt that hangs almost to your knees when you spot the small little patch on the shoulder and gasp. “I want to believe!” You’re beaming at him as you take a seat on the opposite side of the couch. It gives you room to put your feet up, and in less than seconds, Frank’s in the same position. “Did you do that?”

“Of course I fuckin’ did. What, you think big dudes in the 60s had those patches around?” 

“Hey, don’t underestimate cryptids man, they’ll fuck you up.” You look at him with dead sincerity before breaking out into a chuckle.

“Oh man,” He smiles at your comment. “I know you’re a freak for aliens. I wanted to personalise it somehow.” You’re playing with the patch, admiring his handiwork in stitching, before turning back to him.

“I love it Frankie, really.” You reach one hand out and he grabs it momentarily, intertwining fingers. It was your little way of saying you appreciate something. “I missed you buddy.” You say, and he nods.

“I missed you too.” 

It grows kinda quiet, your hands unlink and you spend a minute just existing with him. He’s beautiful, he really is, not that you’d ever tell him in person. That’d make everything weird. But even with the bags under his eyes and the mop of unbrushed curls on top of his head, even in his ripped to shit jeans and parka jacket… he’s got such an old soul that shines through.

“What?” He asks.

“What?” You respond, delicately playing with the frayed hem of the shirt.

“You’re looking at me funny.” He almost seems to blush as he reaches for the bag again and pulls it into his lap.

“I was just thinking… you’re an old soul, aren’t you?”

“Jeez, thanks. I’m not your dad.” He’s rooting around for something, you’ve no idea what.

“That’s not what I meant! You know what I mean.”

He pulls out small rectangular tin and a lighter. “You mind?”

“Frank Iero. Smoking, again?!” You lean forward with a look of anger, obviously not serious but enough for him to throw his hands up in protest.

“As if I ever really stopped! D’you mind though?” He asks again, opening up and taking out a small bag and waving it at you. He already knows your answer.

“Only if you’re sharing,” He smirks and starts to take out long loose papers and begins rolling. It doesn’t take him so long, 20 years of rolling blunts and it almost becomes an art form. While he rolls he tells you about how they caught someone sneaking onto the bus as they were headed across the border to Canada.

“No fucking way.”

“I’m serious! It wasn’t even at a venue or anything, we were just breaking for the driver and grabbing dinner, when we came back we heard a weird noise in the back room and when we checked there was this guy just chilling on the couch in there. I almost let him stay.” He finishes rolling as you stare almost in disbelief. He lights up, takes a drag and then passes it over to you.

“Thanks.”

“No problem, babygirl.” He exhales.

“Babygirl?” You raise a brow in questioning, not that you minded. Should you have been anymore of a daring spirit, you’d tell him to say it again… because that wouldn’t be weird.

“I picked it up from one of the guys we were on tour with, he kept referring to anyone and everyone as babygirl.”

“Sounds hot.”

“Not when you heard what he was calling himself.” You take a couple of drags, passing back and forth as you chat.

“Oh Frankie, my interest has piqued.”

“No way,” He laughs, “You don’t wanna know.”

“Oh I do,” You demand, sticking your foot out and tapping at his knee. “Tell me, Frankie boy. Or I’ll be forced to call _you_ babygirl for the foreseeable future.”

“Nope, no way. You’re not getting that info from me.”

“You know you’re smoking pot, right? If I wait like twenty minutes you’ll tell me without question.” It’s true, too. Frank’s a stupidly honest open book as soon as he’s high. “You either tell me now or we wait and you tell me then.”

“Fine! Fine-” He dumps his bag on the floor from its previous position in the middle of the couch, grabs the ashtray from the coffee table and then his tea. Stretching his legs out so they rest on top of yours, he balances the tray precariously on his knee. “He kept calling himself ‘Daddy’, happy now?”

You almost _choke._

You’re not so surprised, that’s not the problem at all. But hearing Frank use the word ‘Daddy’ gives you a strange feeling you didn’t expect.

“Daddy!? That’s what you were so secretive about for all of three minutes?” You splutter out a laugh, leaning forward to take a sip from your own cup.

“Yes! But like- you know… I feel like I’ve been conditioned to accept that some guys call themselves ‘Daddy’ now…” He trails off with a slight smirk on his face, something you expect he thinks you missed.

“...What?” You give him a questioning look, and his response is shy.

“I might have… referred to myself as it - once or twice…” His face is scarlet, and you imagine Frank referring to himself as ‘Daddy’ and can’t help reflect the colour on your own face. Still, given the oncoming high, you can’t help but laugh at him. “Don’t laugh! It’s not a sexual thing or anything!”

“You sure?” You’re coughing out your words from the smoke, “You look pretty flushed, Frank.”

“Fuck off, it’s embarrassing! I go on tour for two months and come back calling myself Daddy? What if it does get sexual? What am I gonna do!?”

“I mean it’s not like you’re getting laid anyway.” You reply without thinking about how harsh your quip is, “Sorry, my bad… I know the last one was rough.”

“It’s fine, you’re right! But what if I do? I’m getting into bed with some hot chick after a show and half way through I get her calling me dad?!” You snort at his worst case scenario-esque vision, and Frank starts to laugh along. “I can’t do that shit! It’d be on the front page of Kerrang the next fucking week.” You’re almost weak in the stomach from laughing, and you hardly manage to settle before you watch the ashtray slip from Franks right knee onto the floor beside him. “Shit!”

“Hey man, some girls are into that shit!” You’re giggling so hard through your words that tears start to form in your eyes.

“Oh fuck off, I’m fully aware. You think I haven’t seen the fucking tweets that are calling me that?”

“Exactly! You’re total daddy material, Frankie.” You laugh as you say it, but internally there’s that small part of you that completely believes it. You ignore the momentary images that flash through your mind.

“Stop it!” He drags out his words, and you don’t have much to respond with. So you just snort and sip your tea again.

A moment passes, before you take a breath.

“I mean...I’d be into it.” You say, coy and quiet, staring down into your empty cup.

It’s Frank’s turn to seize up now.

“What?” He asks, and while the racing heart rate is ever-present from the weed, you only feel it tighten and increase as you gauge his response. Is that a freaked out “What?” or an interested “What?”... you’ve no clue. So your best bet is to repeat yourself.

“I said I’d be into it.”

“No I heard that, I’m just… are you saying _you_ have a daddy kink?” He crosses his legs and leans forward, a direct reflection of your own position.

“I mean… not in the “I’m gonna go out dressed in a onesie and carry teddy bears everywhere way”, but I’ve... dabbled…”

His mouth forms an ‘oh’ shape but doesn’t make the accompanying sound, and part of you - the part that’s high - wants to laugh at the image. Everything else is suddenly too quiet.

_Fuck…_

“Did I just make it weird? I made it weird… sorry, I’ll grab your cases and uh-” You cut yourself off to concentrate on standing up. “It was the action on one of them right, is it the same on the other? I’ll figure it out. You can go. Just take what you need and we can sort out paying me later.” You turn away from Frank, mortified, and pick up the cases and move to your workbench where the stereo lies. Setting one to the side and another on top, you open it up and try to concentrate on anything _but_ what just happened.

Time feels even slower, the haze of the weed hanging over you in hopes of carrying you off into some haze. You can’t believe you thought saying that would go over well. You kick yourself repeatedly and shrug off your shirt to tie around your waist. You need it out of your way, you need everything out of the way.

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

Frank hasn’t moved. You haven’t heard him move. You wish he _would_ move. Do… anything, just to let you know the moment was over and he was leaving.

 

Another minute passes. It feels like an hour.

You’re trying to figure out what’s going on with the action on the guitar in your hands, it’s one of Frank’s favourites so you need to get it fixed by tomorrow. The “31” sticker on the body shines a little under the unnatural light of the backroom. 

It sounds like he still hasn’t moved, so you set down the guitar on the bench and lean your forearms against it. “Look, dude, I know you’re freaked out so it’s best if you just leave, right? I mean,” You move to turn and face him. “What good is it going to do if you st-ah! _Jesus!_ ”

The yelp you let out is from Frank unsuspectedly being directly behind you when you turned around. There’s no space between the two of you as he crowds up against you. “Frank, what the fuck?”

He stands in front of you, your bodies pressed against each other lightly and your head feels like it’s swimming in the confusion. Frank pushes closer, his hands travelling from his sides to the bench behind you, trapping you. 

“What made you think I was freaked out?” He asks, his face unbearably close to yours. You smell the smoke on him, and your eyes can’t find one singular place to look except for _away._

“You seemed shocked - s-so I thought I’d fucked up…” You trail off, trying not to concentrate on how strange this situation is - not that you can concentrate on much anyway except for the feeling of Frank’s body pressed up against yours.

“Fucked up what?” He moves his right hand to trail it through your hair, and even though part of you wants to know where the fuck this all came from, you stand there dumbfounded with your hands resting on the counter behind you. You notice out of the corner of your eye that you forgot to close the blinds on the shop door, meaning that anyone who looked hard enough would see this through the slight space in their line of sight.

“I don’t know… saying I was into that thing that you mentioned.”

“What thing?”

“The, fucking…” You feel like you’re swallowing a pill with the lump in your throat. “The daddy thing…”

“Say it again.” He pushes against you, his words blunt and clear throughout this distinct change in attitude. 

“I said I’d call you daddy…” You can feel yourself blushing scarlet red. “Frank, what are you doing? I-”

“Shh.” He softly presses his finger to your lips. “Let me talk, okay?” He drags his finger away from your lips, and you’re so subdued by his words. With ever so shy confidence, you look up to meet his eyes with your own, and notice his stare. “You’re gonna come to my show tomorrow, right?” You nod immediately, you planned on going but with this new thing… you were already there. “Let me hear you.”

“Yeah.” Frank pauses, waiting for the phrase you know he wants to hear. “Yes, daddy.”

“Good, and you’re going to wait afterwards for me?”

“Yes, Daddy.” You can’t believe the words are coming out of your mouth so naturally as Frank talks to you so sweetly. You want him. You want him to take you right here, but instead he’s watching you. Trailing his hands through your hair, and then pulling you closer.

“Good girl.” Your heart skips at the endearing words directed at you, and before you can say anything to reply, he’s kissing you with this hectic passion and immediately your hands reach up, running hands through his hair and immediately wanting more. A content sigh escapes you as the hand at the small of your back pulls you close, the other pulling your leg up to wrap around him.

Frank pulls away after a moment, giving the two of you space to breathe as he rests his forehead against yours. “God, I’ve wanted that for a while now…”

“Really?” You’re a little shocked, but given that you’re now making out, you figure the answer is obviously yes, really.

“Really.”

He kisses you again, softer this time before pulling away with a smile. He walks turns away, picks up his bag and heads towards the door before turning back for a second. “See you tomorrow.”

He leaves you, just like that… breathless, brainless, and _so_ fucking stoned.


End file.
